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Andalucia may roughly be subdivided into four main regions, unequal in extent, but of well-marked physical characters and conformation. These are the sierras, and the rolling corn-lands, at both of which we have already glanced. Then there are the dehesas—wild, uncultivated wastes or prairies, of which more anon. Lastly, there are the marismas.

We have in English no equivalent to the Spanish "marisma," and these regions are so peculiar, both physically and ornithologically, as to require a short description. Geologically, the marismas are the deltas of great rivers, the alluvial accumulations of ages, deposited, layer upon layer, on the sea-bottom till the myriad particles thrust back the sea, and form level plains of dry land. The struggle between rival elements does not terminate, but the attacks of the liquid combatant only seem to result in still further assuring the victory of terra firma, by banking up between the opposing forces an impregnable rampart of sand. The latter, overlying the margin of the rich alluvial mud, is thus capable, in its hollows and deeper dells, of sustaining a luxuriant plant-life, which in turn serves to fortify and consolidate its otherwise unstable consistency.[18]

The largest of the Spanish marismas, and those best known to the authors, are those of the Guadalquivir. If the reader will look at a map of Spain, there will be noticed on the Lower Guadalquivir a large tract totally devoid of the names of villages, &c. From Lebrija on the east to Almonte on the west, and from the Atlantic almost up to Seville itself, the map is vacant. This huge area is, in fact, a wilderness, and in winter the greater part a dismal waste of waters. For league after league as one advances into that forbidding desolation, the eye rests on nothing but water—tawny waters meeting the sky all round the horizon. The Guadalquivir intersects the marisma, its triple channel divided from the adjacent shallows and savannahs by low mud-banks. The water of the marisma is fresh, or nearly so—quite drinkable—and has a uniform depth over vast areas of one or two feet, according to the season. Here and there slight elevations of its muddy bed form low islands, varying from a few yards to thousands of acres in extent, covered with coarse herbage, thistles and bog-plants, the home of countless wild-fowl and aquatic birds. In spring the water recedes; as the hot weather sets in it rapidly evaporates, leaving the marisma a dead level of dry mud, scorched and cracked by the fierce summer sun. A rank herbage springs up, and around the remaining water-holes wave beds of tall reeds and cane-brakes.

In winter the marshy plains abound with wild-fowl, ducks, geese, and water-birds of varied kinds; but of the winter season in the marisma, its fowl and fowlers, we treat fully hereafter.

The spring-months abound in interest to the naturalist. Imagination can hardly picture, nor Nature provide, a region more congenial to the tastes of wild aquatic birds than these huge marismas, with their silent stretches of marsh-land and savannahs, cane-brake and stagnant waters, and their profusion of plant and insect life. Here, in spring, in an ornithological Eden, one sees almost daily new bird-forms. During the vernal migration the still air resounds with unknown notes, and many of those species which at home are the rarest—hardly known save in books or museums—are here the most conspicuous, filling the desolate landscape with life and animation. The months of February and March witness the withdrawal of most of the winter wild-fowl. Day after day the clouds of Pintails and Wigeon, of Shovellers, Pochards, and Teal, and fresh files of grey geese wing their way northwards; while their places are simultaneously being filled by arrivals from the south. April brings an influx of graceful forms and many sub-tropical species, for which Andalucia forms, roughly speaking, the northern limit; while in May is superadded a "through transit," which renders the bird-life of that period at times almost bewildering.

But before attempting to fill in the details, it is necessary to explain the mode of travel and the methods by which these wildernesses can be investigated. Uninhabited and abandoned to wild-fowl and flamingoes, and lying remote from any "base of operations," the exploration of the marismas is an undertaking of some difficulty. They cannot, owing to their extent, be worked from any single base; hence, thoroughly to explore them and penetrate their lonely expanses, necessitates a well-equipped expedition, independent of external aid, and prepared to encamp night after night among the tamarisks or samphire on bleak islet or barren arenal. Some of our earlier efforts, twenty years ago, resulted in total failure. Setting out by way of the river, the light launches suitable for the shallow marisma proved unequal to the voyage up the broad Guadalquivir; while, on the other hand, the larger craft in which that exposed estuary could be safely navigated were useless in the shallows. One attempt was frustrated by sunstroke; on another our Spanish crew "struck" through stress of weather, leaving us at a lonely spot some thirty miles beyond Bonanza with no alternative but to submit, or go on alone. We had, however, some reward for this enforced tramp in discovering the Dunlin (Tringa alpina) nesting at a point over a thousand miles south of any previous record of its breeding-range. Finally, we chartered at San Lucar a large fishing-yawl, bound up-river, and after a long day in that malodorous craft, beating up against wind and stream, and with our three punts in tow, we at length succeeded in launching them on the waters of the middle marismas.

FISHING BOAT ON THE GUADALQUIVIR.

The geese and wigeon had entirely disappeared—this was early in April—but passage-ducks still skimmed in large flights over the open waters. These were chiefly Mallards, with Pintails and Pochards (both species), a few Teal, Garganey, and probably other species. We also shot Shovellers out of small "bunches," and among the deep sluices of some abandoned salt-pans (salinas), where we spent the first night, three or four Tufted Ducks, and a pair of Pochards. I killed a single Scoter drake as late as April 13th, and was shown as a curiosity a Cormorant which had been killed by some fishermen on the river a day or two before.

One cannot go far into the marisma without seeing that extraordinary fowl, the Flamingo, certainly the most characteristic denizen of the wilderness. In herds of 300 to 500, several of which are often in sight at once, they stand like regiments, feeding in the open water, all heads under, greedily tearing up the grasses and water-plants that grow beneath the surface. On approaching them, which can only be done by extreme caution, their silence is first broken by the sentries, which commence walking away with low croaks: then the whole five hundred necks rise at once to full stretch, every bird gaggling his loudest as they walk obliquely away, looking back over their shoulders as though to take stock of the extent of the danger. Shoving the punt a few yards forward, up they all rise, and a more beautiful sight cannot be imagined than the simultaneous spreading of their thousand crimson wings, flashing against the sky like a gleam of rosy light. Then one descends to the practical, and a volley of slugs cuts a lane through their phalanx.

In many respects these birds bear a strong resemblance to geese. Like the latter, Flamingoes feed by day: and quantities of grass, etc., are always floating about the muddy water at the spot where a herd has been feeding. Their cry is almost indistinguishable from the gaggling of geese, and they fly in the same chain-like formations. The irides of the oldest individuals are very pale lemon-yellow: the bare skin between the bill and the eye is also yellow, and the whole plumage beautifully suffused with warm pink. In the young birds of one year (which do not breed) this pink shade is entirely absent, and even their wings bear but slight traces of it. The secondaries and tertiaries of these immature birds are barred irregularly with black spots, and their legs, bills and eyes are of a dull lead colour. In size flamingoes vary greatly: the largest we have measured was fully six feet five inches—there are some quite seven feet—while others (old red birds) barely reached five feet.

The further we advanced into the marisma the more abundant became the bird-life. Besides ducks and flamingoes, troops of long-legged Stilts in places whitened the waters, and chattering bands of Avocets swept over the marshy islets: around these also gyrated clouds of Dunlins in full breeding-plumage: smaller flights, composed of Kentish plovers and Lesser Ring-dotterel mixed, with Redshanks and Peewits: the two latter paired. One morning at daybreak, a pack of two hundred Black-tailed Godwits pitched on an islet hard by our camp, probably tired with a long migratory journey, for these wary birds allowed two punts to run almost "aboard them," and received a raking broadside at thirty yards.[19] On April 11th we obtained a single Grey Phalarope (Phalaropus fulicarius), swimming like a little duck on an open arroyo, and the Sanderling, Green and Common Sandpipers, were all abundant, together with Ruffs and Reeves, though in mid-April the former still lacked the full nuptial dress. Greenshanks and Knots we did not meet with then; though a month later (in May) swarms of both these species, together with Whimbrels, Grey Plovers, and Curlew-Sandpipers, all in perfect summer plumage, poured into the marisma, to rest and recruit on their direct transit from Africa to the Arctic.

On April 8th the Pratincoles arrived, and thenceforward their zigzag flight and harsh croak were constantly in evidence all over the dry mud and sand, where they feed on beetles. In 1891 we observed a "rush" of these birds, some arriving, and others passing over high, almost out of sight, on the 11th of April. Sometimes a score of these curious birds would cast themselves down on the bare ground all around one, some with expanded wings, and all lying head to wind, much as a nightjar squats on the sand. Pratincoles resemble terns when standing, but run like plovers, and on summer evenings, with the terns, they hawk after insects like swallows. Their beaks have a very wide gape which is bordered with vermilion.

Another conspicuous bird-group in the marisma are the herons, of which seven or eight species are here, more or less numerous. Besides the Common and Purple Herons, the Buff-backed, Squacco, and Night Herons, Egrets, Spoon-bills, and Glossy Ibis are also found, and several of one kind or the other can generally be descried on the open marsh—the first-named often perched on the backs of the cattle or wild-bred ponies of the marisma, ridding them of the ticks and "warbles," or embryo gadflies which burrow in the poor brutes' hides. The rush-girt arroyos, or stagnant channels, were dotted with these most elegant birds, some actively feeding, plunging their heads under to catch the darting water-beetles as they dive, others resting quiescent in every graceful pose. Here is a description of such a spot:—April 29th. Lying this morning in the punt, well hidden among thick tamarisks, in the arroyo del Junco Real, we had no less than twelve interesting species within 200 yards: ducks of four kinds dipped and splashed on the open water, viz.:—Mallards, Garganey, Marbled Duck, and one pair of handsome, heavy-headed "Porrones" (Erismatura leucocephala). Sundry Stilts, Egrets, and four Squacco Herons stalked sedately in the shallows—one of the latter presently perching on a broken bulrush within ten yards of the boat. A group of Avocets slept standing, each on one leg, on a dry point; and further away, two Spoonbills were busy sifting the soft mud with curious revolving gait. Coots and Grebes (Podicipes nigricollis) kept dodging in and out among the flags and aquatic plants, and a Marsh-Harrier, whose mate was sitting in an adjoining cane-brake, soared in the background. This is not counting the commoner kinds, nor several others which we afterwards observed close by: the above were all in sight, mostly in shot, at one spot.

The Coots and Mallards have eggs in March, the Purple Heron early in April: on the 9th we found the first nest, merely an armful of the long green reeds bent down, and containing one blue egg. The other herons nest very late—in June.

One other bird-group remains to be briefly mentioned—the Larinæ. In so congenial a resort they are, of course, in force: but in early April few gulls, beyond the British species, are noticeable[20]—of others, anon. The Whiskered Tern (Hydrochelidon hybrida) came in swarms during the first days of April, followed on the 13th by the Lesser Tern, and at the end of the month by H. nigra, the Black Tern, all of which abound, gracefully hovering over every pool or reed-choked marsh. The larger Gull-billed Tern (Sterna anglica) is also common in summer in the marisma, where we have taken the eggs of all four species.

The utter loneliness and desolation of the middle marismas are a sensation to be remembered. Hour after hour one pushes forward across the flooded plain, only to bring within view more and yet more vistas of watery waste and endless horizons of tawny water. On a low islet in the far distance stand a herd of cattle—mere points in space: but they, too, partake of the general wildness, and splash off at a galop while yet a mile away. Even the horses or ponies of the marisma seem to have reverted to their original man-fearing state, and are as shy and timid as any of the feræ naturæ. After long days on the monotonous marisma, one's wearied eyes at length rejoice at a vision of trees—a dark green pine-grove casting grateful shade on the scorching sands beneath. To that oasis we direct our coarse: but it is a fraud, one of Nature's cruel mockeries—a mirage. Not a tree grows on that spot, or within leagues of it, nor has done for ages—perhaps since time began.

Upon a dreary islet we land to form a camp for the night: that is, to arrange our upturned punts around such scanty fire as can be raised from a few armfuls of tamarisks and dead thistles—all that our little domain produces—assisted by a few pine-cones, brought for the purpose in the boats. Dinner is cooked in the little block-tin camp-stove, or sarten prusiano, as the Spaniards call it, which only demands a modicum of lard and a sharp fire to reduce a rabbit or a duck to eatable state within a few minutes. The fare which can be obtained by the gun at this season is meagre enough: ducks or plovers are sorry food for hungry men, though a hare, shot on a grassy savanna, is acceptable enough; nor are the eggs of coot or peewit to be despised. Later, we experimented on many oological varieties, especially Stilt's and Avocet's eggs. The latter are excellent, boiling pale yellow and half opaque, like those of plover: but the Stilt's eggs are too red in the yolk to be tempting. Our men were not so squeamish: but then they did not even stick at the eggs of Kites or Vultures. After all, it is safer to rely in the main on Australian mutton, tinned ox-tongues from the Plate, or indigenous "jamon dulce;" but the difficulties of transport in tiny lanchas forbid one's being entirely independent of local fare.

The memories of our earliest experiences in the Spanish marismas, in April, 1872, do not fade. The glorious wild-life fascinated and exhilarated, while youthful enthusiasm ignored all drawbacks. But in later years it is perhaps excusable if a slight doubt of the bliss of campaigning in winter may temporarily arise when one is awakened in the middle watches of the night by sheer penetrating cold, finds the fire burnt out, the trusted Españoles all asleep, and the tail of a big black snake sticking out from under one's bed, or the poke of straw which is serving the purpose.

The night of April 10th we spent at Rocío, a squalid hamlet clustered around the chapel of Nuestra Señora del Rocío, an ancient shrine visited yearly at the vernal festival by faithful pilgrims. We were tired of the cold and comfortless nights sub Jove in the marisma, where upturned punts afforded scant shelter from the piercing winds of the small hours, and where the chill exhalations of night kept one awake listening to the chorus of frogs and flamingoes and the melancholy boom of the bittern. It was hardly a change for the better, for a more wretched ague-stricken spot we have seldom beheld, and in the dirty little posada man and beast were reckoned exactly equal in relation to the "accommodation" they require. The bed provided was a dirty mat of esparto grass, six feet by two, unrolled and laid on the bare ground: but the mosquitoes and other insect plagues made sleep impossible, and the night was spent in skinning the day's captures. The four-league tramp, however, through sandy, scrub-covered plains, was a relief from the monotonous marisma, and there were fresh birds for a change. The low, soft, double note of the Hoopoe was ubiquitous; brilliant Bee-eaters, Rollers, and Golden Orioles flashed like jewels in the sunshine, amidst the groves of wild olive and alcornoque: Southern Grey Shrikes (Lanius meridionalis) mumbled their harsh "wee hāte" from some tree-top or tall shoot of cistus, and Turtle-doves actually swarmed—all these birds (except the shrikes) newly returned from African scenes. We also observed a pair of Lesser Spotted Woodpeckers, and a single Azure-winged Magpie—the only occurrence of the latter we had then met with in this district, though further inland it is common near Coria del Rio, and towards Córdova it becomes plentiful. Near Rocio, also, we obtained the Red-backed Shrike, a species not previously recorded from Southern Spain.